I Prefer Not To Live

(But My Shrink Says I’m Stable)

I don’t want to participate in life anymore.

Not in a suicidal way, although it should be mentioned that I have bipolar disorder and an intimate knowledge of suicidal ideation. But I’m on meds and my shrink considers me “stable” (two years with no episodes! and counting!)

No, my unwillingness to participate is more like the problem of Herman Melville’s main character in Bartleby the Scrivener. At every turn, when asked to do anything at all, Bartleby would reply, “I prefer not to.”

And that’s basically it. Only I’m self-employed, whereas Bartleby had a boss. So nobody orders me around. It’s just life that demands normal, everyday life-things of me. For instance, my phone rings, I look at whoever’s calling, and I prefer not to answer. Getting out of bed in the morning? I prefer not to. I slept till noon today.

Should I fix myself something to eat, or should I go without? I prefer not to on both accounts, a stand-off my stomach eventually resolves: I will be having cheese and crackers again. What about paying bills? I prefer not to do that either. Go outside, or stay in? I open the door and a blast of heat hits my face like a sauna. I stay in, wishing I were out, but in cooler weather. I avoid the dog’s eyes. I prefer not to feel his guilt-laden stare.